Baptism, Faith, Sermons

Sermon, Jan. 11, 2026

When we are preparing to do a baptism, sometimes somebody asks what it means – a perfectly reasonable question! And there are libraries full of writing about what baptism is and does and means. But the ultimate answer is that we baptize because Jesus told us to baptize. 

There’s something about what John was doing, in his ministry of baptism for repentance and amendment of life, that was important enough that Jesus himself chose to undergo it. And then when Jesus sends his followers out to preach the Gospel and start churches, he tells them to baptize people, by water and the holy spirit, in the name of the Trinity.

So, early on, baptism becomes the Christian rite of initiation, the way somebody is welcomed into the assembly of the faithful. And likewise early on, baptism becomes connected with reciting the core teachings of the church, as a way to remind us all what the church believes, and to make sure that those being baptized are prepared to be part of a body that believes that stuff.

In the baptismal liturgy of the Episcopal Church, we say something called the Apostles Creed. It’s a little shorter than the creed we use most Sundays, but pretty similar. The creed we use most Sundays in Eucharistic liturgy is called the Nicene Creed – though technically it’s the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed. That’s because the Creed took more or less the form we use today at a church council in Constantinople in 381, but those were only minor changes to the Creed agreed upon by church leaders gathered in the city of Nicaea – now in Turkey – in the year 325. 

Our bishop, Matt Gunter, recently wrote a reflection on the Nicene Creed that begins with concise explanation of why the Council of Nicaea was held. 

He writes, “[Jesus’] followers were convinced that his death and resurrection had reconfigured everything, bringing salvation from sin, death, and decay with the promise of a hitherto unimagined transformation of [humanity] and the world. Finding language to express that in ways that enabled people to experience that salvation and transformation was important. Was Jesus some sort of divine being sent by God at the mysterious heart of all reality? Was he something more? They had the scriptures, they had the church’s language of prayer and worship, and they had the baptismal formulae that were already the seeds of a creed… With all of that, theologians of the church struggled for decades – centuries – to make sense of and find a satisfactory way to articulate who [Jesus] was and why he mattered. Some ways of articulating that were deemed unsatisfactory, misguided, or even dangerous. This struggle and the debates it provoked became more public and more intense once Christianity was declared legal… [in the year] 313. Things came to a head with a priest in the city of Alexandria named Arius, who taught that, while Jesus was in some sense divine, he was still a… creature of God, [and that God] would surely not deign to be identified with the messy, chaotic material world by taking on mortal flesh. But his bishop, Alexander, preached otherwise – that Jesus was indeed the [earthly] incarnation of… God…  This set up an intense controversy. The Council of Nicaea was called by the Roman Emperor Constantine to address disputes about how to understand the person of Jesus and, thus, God, creation, humanity, and salvation.”

Astute listeners may be thinking: Wow, 325! The Creed just had its 1700th birthday last year!  How did you celebrate?…

I celebrated by listening to a talk on the Creed by Kathryn Tanner, one of the greatest theologians of our church, back in November. I really liked what she had to say; it made the Creed more interesting and more alive, for me. And I thought, I should turn this into a sermon sometime! And – because the Creed is kind of front and center in the baptismal liturgy – today is your lucky day. 

There’s some tiny little text above the Creed in our Epiphany booklets – because I’ve long felt that the Creed needed some explaining. Among other things, it says, “Many faithful people wonder about, or question, parts of the Creed – or all of it! If you have questions, know you’re in good company, and let’s talk.” I don’t get a lot of those questions, to be honest, but here are some questions I think people might have about the Creed. 

Question one might be: Am I supposed to know what all of this means? Because I don’t. Begotten, not made? Light from light? Of one being with the Father? There are a lot of terms and phrases in the Creed that I’ve always vaguely assumed had some specific technical or theological meaning. Like “true god from from true god” and “eternally begotten”. I figured they meant something specific and I just didn’t know what. 

Tanner says: Nope. This is just what happens when you create an important theological document by committee. The Council of Nicaea gathered church leaders from across the Christian world to try to come to consensus about core issues of diversity and dispute – especially, though not only, questions about the divinity of Jesus. The resulting statement is called a Creed because of the Latin word credere, meaning, to believe; it’s a statement of the Church’s consensus beliefs on these big issues. 

I’m sure many of us have had the experience of trying to craft a document – a statement, a report, a resolution – with a group of people with different views. It can be a real pain, right? Often the result doesn’t end up saying exactly what you wanted it to say, or as much as you wanted it to say, because other people had other opinions and priorities. What you end up with says less than everybody hoped it would say, in order to say something that everybody is willing to say. 

That’s what the Nicene Creed is. Tanner said: The Creed is vague and underspecified so that a group of people with diverse and emphatic theological views could all come to the table and sign off on it. If it got any more specific, then people would have started storming out of the room. The Creed’s language is poetic and open-ended in order to allow a variety of understandings to come together under its umbrella. It’s the most they could say, together.

The Creed is vague and metaphorical on purpose. It’s not that we’re missing something. And Tanner says that open-endedness is good, because it spurs further theological thinking and debate, in the centuries and millennia that follow. We keep wondering what it all means, what can we work out and what’s simply beyond human comprehension. 

Christians are not united by very specific theological positions, because those early, defining ecumenical Councils didn’t arrive at very specific theological positions. If they had tried to do that, they would have failed. Rather, says Tanner, Christians are united through processes of wondering and arguing. And that’s a good thing. You could almost say that some freedom of thought and conscience and practice is one of the core values at the heart of historic Christianity. 

Question two: Is this a checklist of things I’m supposed to believe? 

The Creed was not written to be a test of right belief for ordinary church members. It was written to get a bunch of bishops vaguely on the same page in the fourth century. It was also not created to be recited in worship every Sunday. Marion Hatchett, one of the core figures behind our current Book of Common Prayer, writes that in the early centuries, the Eucharistic Prayer functioned as a creed – the statement of faith shared every time the church gathered, to which people responded with a great AMEN. 

The Nicene or Apostle’s Creed have been used in baptismal liturgies and on feast days for a long time, but saying a creed every week seems have developed over the past few centuries. I found a statement from the Liturgical Commission of our sister church, the Church of England, arguing that using the Creed regularly in worship helps hand down the faith to subsequent generations, encourage theological exploration, and affirm unity with churches around the world. Sure. The thing is: I’m pretty sure there are more effective ways to do all of those things. For most of us, most of the time, the Creed is just something we march through on our way to the next more interesting part. 

In her talk, Tanner described the Creed as being like the Pledge of Allegiance. When we say it together in church, there isn’t time or space – any more than there is at the beginning of a school day – to unpack what it means or ask questions. Instead, it functions as a declaration of shared allegiance: we’re committing to something together – something that this set of ancient words gestures towards. 

Ultimately: Why do we say the Creed together in our Eucharistic services? Basically, because the rubrics – the instructions in the Book of Common Prayer – say that we have to.  

And maybe there’s something significant lurking there. Because the weekly recitation reminds us what kind of church this is. We are part of a church rooted in the teachings and practices of the early centuries of Christianity – which is what the Creed means when it says “one, holy, catholic and apostolic church”; that’s catholic with a small c, meaning, universal. As a church, we do the things that all churches did for the first millennium of Christianity. We have deep roots, even as we make many things new. And that rootedness is important, as ballast and belonging. 

Question three – or really more of a comment: The Creed doesn’t say the things that are important to me about church/God/faith. 

Tanner points out that the ecumenical councils were gathered around matters of division and dispute. The Creeds address and… somewhat settle… those core issues. But there were many, many things over which early Christianity was not divided. In his essay on the Creed, Bishop Matt lists some examples of matters on which the early church was pretty united: “The early church already took the teaching and example of Jesus seriously. They were contained in the scriptures, which were already read in worship every week. The church put love and compassion at the heart of its life and teaching. It organized social services for the poor, hungry, and needy. It founded hospitals. Its teaching reflected the example of Jesus in critiquing wealth, and violence. It advocated for hospitality to the stranger and foreigner. The dignity of traditionally marginalized groups like women, children, and the poor [and I would add, sexual & gender minorities] was honored in a way unprecedented in the ancient world… The church surely did not practice all of this perfectly, always, and everywhere. But none of the above was particularly controversial.”

I wish we had a Creed, a statement of faith, that reminded us of all that stuff week by week, The baptismal covenant, created for the most recent Book of Common Prayer, that we’ll say together in a few moments does some of this work, but I think there’s more we could say about the essentials of the Christian way, as our earliest faith-ancestors knew it and as we continue to strive to practice it today. 

Like: that there’s a Power greater than ourselves, that we call God, that works for good in the world, and that knows and loves us. 

That God came among us as Jesus, fully human and fully divine, and that something about his living and dying and rising among us extends salvation, rescue, healing, restoration, transformation, to us and the world. 

That Christians should try to live good lives. That much in our lives is unmanageable; that individually and together we get ourselves into messes that we need the help of a Higher Power to get out of. And that when we fall short of our intentions, we should repent, seek forgiveness from God and make amends with those we have harmed, and try to become people who will cause less harm in the future. 

That God doesn’t have a favorite kind of people, and neither should Christians. That we are obligated by our faith to welcome and honor and respond in love to everyone, regardless of gender, race, wealth or poverty, national origin or immigration status, health, illness or disability, criminal record, and so on. 

That God loves Creation and so should we. 

That we are called to help restore what is broken in the human and natural world, in the diverse ways given to each of us. To grapple with the the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God, in the words of the baptismal liturgy. 

That living like this is hard, and so it’s best for us to do it together, provoking one another to love and good deeds, in that line from the letter to the Hebrews that I love so much. Supporting one another; sharing resources with each other, and pooling our resources to do good for others. 

That being beloved by God, and living rightly in God’s ways, doesn’t mean we’ll always be wealthy or happy or safe. That there are things that are more important that death, things worth dying for. That we’re called to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, and that there’s no greater love than laying down life for a friend. 

That Love is as strong as death, and stronger. 

That more can be mended than we know, and that one day, God will wipe away all tears. 

Although churches always live out these convictions imperfectly, that’s a project to which I’m wiling to pledge my allegiance.

That’s an endeavor into which I’m glad to welcome Asher and Ezra today. 

We’ll continue with the baptismal liturgy. 

Some sources:

https://www.churchofengland.org/sites/default/files/2025-01/gs-misc-1408-the-use-of-the-nicene-creed.pdf

https://www.diowis.org/bishop-teachings/nicenecreed1700anniversary

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Kid-friendly, scripture

Christmas Eve sermon, 2025

On Christmas Eve we always hear a beautiful reading from the prophet Isaiah: The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light! A prophet is someone who comes so close to God that they know what’s real and true and important. Sometimes God gives them words to speak to God’s people. 

The prophet Isaiah lived a long time before Jesus, but the joy and hope in this reading fit the way Christians feel about Christmas, when we share the holy story of God being born as a human baby, to live among human beings and share our lives and tell us how much God loves us. 

There’s a part of that Isaiah reading that’s a little strange, though: when it talks about the boots of the tramping warriors, and the bloody clothes, and about breaking people free from their oppressors, “as on the day of Midian.” It sounds like it’s talking about a war, or a battle. But what is the day of Midian?

The story of the battle of Midian comes from the book of Judges, from the early part of the Bible, a long time before Jesus and even a long time before Isaiah. The people who were becoming God’s people were living in towns and villages and farms, raising their crops and their sheep and their children. They wanted peace and enough to eat, like anybody else. But another nation who lived nearby – the nation of Midian – decided they wanted that land. They started to attack the the farms and towns and villages, stealing the animals and burning the fields, and killing people too. 

Slowly these people, the Midianites, started to take over and camp out on the land. God’s people had to struggle and fight and run and hide. People didn’t have any food. They had to abandon their villages, and go live in caves in the mountains. It was really terrible! The people cried out to God for help. Save us, God; we’re hungry, cold, and afraid, and our enemies are too strong for us! 

One day a young man named Gideon is preparing some wheat from his father’s farm; he’s kind of hiding so the Midianites don’t spot him. Suddenly, an angel appears! The angel says, Gideon! God is with you!

And Gideon says, I don’t know about that! If God is with us, why are things so terrible right now for my family and my people?… 

The angel tells Gideon that God has chosen Gideon to drive out the Midianites and free his people. But Gideon is not so sure. He’s not a mighty warrior or a powerful leader. He’s just some guy. He’s probably not even fully a grownup yet – maybe he’s eighteen or twenty, still working for his dad. So he think it’s pretty strange that God has chosen HIM to lead an army. He tests the angel to make sure they really speak for God. 

But eventually Gideon is convinced – and then he convinces other people to join him! The word goes out that God has called a leader to throw out the Midianites, and people start to gather to Gideon. Now, these aren’t soldiers – they’re just ordinary people. They bring whatever they can as weapons: maybe a kitchen knife, or a shovel, or the bow and arrow they use to hunt. And they bring jugs of water, because that’s always a good idea, and they bring a torch for traveling at night, and they bring some musical instruments, because you never know when you might want to have a little jam session.

Gideon looks around and he sees that now he has 32,000 people ready to fight. Does that sound like a lot? … 

But that angel is still hanging around, and the angel says, Gideon, you have too many fighters. Your army is too big.

Gideon says, what do you mean?? We are still outnumbered! The Midianites have 40,000 trained soldiers with real weapons!

The angel says: God says there are too many. If you go to fight Midian with this many people, you might think it’s your own strength that has saved you, instead of God. Tell your fighters: If you’re afraid of the battle, go home. 

Gideon doesn’t like that very much. But he does what the angel told him. He says: If you’re scared of fighting the Midianites, go home to your family! And twenty-two thousand of his fighters go home. How many does that leave?… 

Now Gideon looks at his ten thousand fighters and starts to think about how they’ll attack the Midianite army… but then the angel taps him on the shoulder and says, You still have too many. 

What noise do you think Gideon makes when he hears that?…

This time the angel says: See that pond over there? Send your fighters down to the pond to get a drink. Now, it’s not a good idea to drink water straight out of a pond or a river, but that’s how things were back then. If you were going to get a drink from a pond, how would you do it? Show me with your body?…

The angel tells Gideon: Watch how your fighters drink. All the ones who do THIS, who cup water in their hands – send them home. And all the ones who get down on their hands and knees and lap up the water like a dog – KEEP those ones. 

Out of ten thousand fighters, THREE HUNDRED of them lap up the water like a dog. That’s about three times as many people as there are in this room right now. It’s not very many!

But the angel says: Good. Now you have the right sized army! Go drive out the Midianites, in the name of God! 

I like what happens next because the angel doesn’t tell Gideon how to do it. It’s like God has given Gideon a puzzle to solve: How can I drive out an army of forty thousand, with an army of three hundred? Gideon looks at what his fighters have. They have various tools and weapons, and they have water jugs, and torches, and musical instruments – especially some trumpets. 

And he says: Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll wait till it’s nighttime, and use the darkness. We’ll drink all our water so the jugs are empty. We’ll put the jugs over the torches to hide the light, while we sneak up to the Midianites’ camp. Then all at once, on my signal, we’ll BREAK the jugs, and BLOW our trumpets, so that suddenly there’s a lot of light and noise. And then… we’ll see what happens. 

So that’s what they do. They sneak up close to the enemy camp. Then Gideon gives the signal. They shout, For God and for Gideon! They break the jugs so their torches shine out in the dark. They blow their trumpets loud and long. 

And the Midianite soldiers wake up in a panic! They don’t know what’s happening. They think they’re being attacked. They start fighting with each other in the dark; they don’t know who’s an enemy and who’s a friend. They’re shouting in terror and running away. Soon other fighters come to help Gideon’s tiny army, and they drive the Midianites all the way back to their own land. And for forty years, nobody else attacked God’s people, and they were able to live in peace. 

I don’t know why the prophet Isaiah mentions the battle of Midian, in the reading we hear tonight. It was about five hundred years ago, for Isaiah. And there are lots of stories of battles and surprising victories that Isaiah could have mentioned. But he mentions this one. He reminds his people about the time when they went up against a powerful enemy with almost nothing, and somehow – with God’s help – got free. 

Versions of this story happen over and over and over again in the Old Testament, the part of the Bible from before the time of Jesus. There’s a person, or a group, or a person who’s part of a group, who’s on the downside of things – vulnerable or unimportant, pushed to the edges, too old or too young or too sick or too poor or too weird, younger sons and women and people with dodgy reputations and people from somewhere else, folks living in wartime or under oppressive rule. 

And with God’s help, somebody unexpected is able to survive and grab hold of a little hope and possibility, not only for themselves but for other people like them. Sometimes they even manage to change things, for a while. 

It’s the story of Joseph, of Moses, of David, of Jeremiah and Tobias. It’s the story of Tamar, and Hagar, and Judith, and Ruth and Esther. So many versions of this story, over and over and over again: surviving, and seizing hope, against the odds. 

And when we arrive at the New Testament, at the Christmas story, the Christian story, it’s another version of that story. Jesus lived in a nation weak enough to be part of somebody else’s empire. A hostile and fearful local government, and armed occupation by the Roman Empire, were constant threats to ordinary folks. Jesus’ family was poor, and maybe had to move around some to find work. It seems like they didn’t have much family support; maybe people didn’t like it that Mary got pregnant under strange circumstances. 

But this is the family and the world that God chooses to come into, as a newborn baby. Who’s seen a newborn baby? Does it seem like they can help or save anybody, including themselves?… 

Wouldn’t it have all been much simpler if God had just decided to be born as the oldest son of the emperor? Or to skip the whole baby part and just show up as a mighty warrior-king? 

But this is what God does: God comes to earth as a human baby, poor and ordinary. God makes our lives, our world, holy, by living a life so much like ours. In the story of Jesus’ birth, God tells us, again, to look for grace and hope and possibility among people who are unimportant and powerless and pushed to the edges. 

The story that God is telling the world, the story God keeps telling in the world, is a story about people who aren’t rich and powerful and famous and influential. It’s a story about how those people really matter. They matter to God and they matter to the world. And God’s going to keep telling that story in the world, and through the world, until we build a world where everybody matters.

Now, people like to give presents at Christmas, and I always like to give a little present to the kids (and anyone else, while supplies last) at this service. When I decided to tell you about Gideon tonight, I had this BRILLIANT idea to give everybody little plastic trumpets! I did not ask myself what would happen if I gave everybody a little plastic trumpet in the middle of church. So I’m not going give everybody a little plastic trumpet in the middle of church. I’m going give everybody a little plastic trumpet at the end of church. Parents: I’m so sorry. 

But this trumpet isn’t just to make noise and make everybody sorry that they came to church on Christmas. This trumpet is to remind us that that music and noise and joy and even obnoxiousness can be a kind of power. We can be noisy to celebrate good things, and noisy to protest bad things. We can be noisy to let each other know we’re not alone, and we can be noisy to get attention when something is wrong. And like the day of Midian, sometimes enough noise and light can change the situation. 

So let’s keep telling God’s story about the strength and belovedness of ordinary people. Let’s shine some light, play some music, make some noise, and help people get free. Amen.

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Sermon, Dec. 7

The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.

In my favorite classic rendition of this scene, painted by 19th century Quaker artists Edward Hicks, two little children play together on a riverbank, watched over by a friendly bear, while another bear and an ox share some corn nearby, smiling at each other. Another child, plump and cheerful, stands with one hand on the head of a leopard and the other on the head of a lion. A wolf gazes at a lamb with profound disinterest. 

In the center of the image, a large ox and a regal lion both have mouthfuls of straw. The ox’s head is turned towards the lion, as if to say, What do you think?  

And the lion… looks utterly disgusted. Like he’s about to spit the stuff out. This lion is thinking, Give me a nice juicy lamb any day. Or a little child…  

What is Isaiah doing here, with this prophetic image, so beautiful and so absurd?… 

Isaiah is a long and complicated book – 66 chapters! It covers perhaps 150 years of Israel’s history, and was composed by at least two and probably three primary voices, building on each other’s words and images.

This text from Isaiah 11 is part of what Biblical scholars call First Isaiah – the voice of the original prophet of that name. He’s writing in Judah, the Southern Kingdom, during the time of the Assyrian Empire’s expansion. Samaria, the Northern Kingdom, has already been conquered, and Judah is under threat. Assyria’s aggression is understood as God’s punishment to Israel for forgetting God’s ways – again. 

Chapters 1 through 12 of the Book of Isaiah comprise a first section, with its own beginning, middle, and end. These chapters trace the same arc as many of the shorter prophetic books: introducing the prophet; describing how the nation and its leaders have gone wrong; calling them to repentance and renewed righteousness; predicting the doom that is coming as a consequence of their unfaithfulness; and promising that there is yet hope, and that God will restore and renew in time. 

So here in chapter 11 we are getting to the hopeful vision, as the text turns from afflicting the comfortable to comforting the afflicted. Here we have the promise of a new King better than any king Israel has ever had, who will have more than human power and wisdom. Who will attend to the needs of the most vulnerable, and not rule to the advantage of the wealthy and powerful. Who will bring righteousness and peace – a new age so transformed and gracious that not only the human world but the whole created order will be restored to the peace of Eden. 

So we’re at the end of that prophetic arc here, in these hopeful prophecies. But these texts take on their full meaning in light of the ten chapters that preceded them. Those chapters include calls to return to God and God’s ways – like in last week’s text from Isaiah 2: Come, let us walk in the light of God! That’s not just gentle encouragement but an urgent call back from the brink of doom. Those chapters have a lot to say about how Israel, and especially the powerful and wealthy of Israel, have gone wrong: over-concentration of wealth, worshipping false gods, violence, injustice, “grinding the face of the poor” (3:15), and general frivolity – listen: “Ah, you who are heroes in drinking wine and valiant at mixing drink, who acquit the guilty for a bribe, and deprive the innocent of their rights!” (Isaiah 5:22-23)

Here’s a passage from chapter 10, about the kinds of leaders God’s people are stuck with now, by way of contrast with the righteous leader described in chapter 11: 

“ Doom to those who pronounce wicked decrees,
and keep writing harmful laws
to deprive the needy of their rights
and to rob the poor among my people of justice;
to make widows their loot;
and to steal from orphans!” (Isaiah 10:1-2, CEB)

Those chapters also include descriptions of what it felt like for the people in that time, threatened by enemies without and within, unable to trust their leaders or even their neighbors. Listen to these words from chapter 3, describing a society in which any sense of order, civility and trust have simply dissolved: 

“The people will be oppressed,

everyone by another and everyone by a neighbor;

the youth will be rude to the elder,

and the dishonorable to the honorable. 

Someone will even seize a relative,

a member of the clan, saying,

‘You have a cloak; you shall be our leader,

and this heap of ruins shall be under your rule.’ 

But the other will cry out on that day, saying,

‘I will not be a healer;

in my house there is neither bread nor cloak;

you shall not make me leader of the people.’ 

To paraphrase that last part: 

Someone will grab an acquaintance and say, “Hey, you! We need a leader, and you’ll do!”  But the other will cry out, “I can’t fix this! I have no resources to offer!  Don’t put me in charge!” 

It’s a simple but evocative description of the state of mind of the people Israel at this moment in their history: confused, frightened, angry; feeling unable to trust stranger or friend, wondering where to turn, looking for direction and leadership. 

I understand why the lectionary brings us the texts of hope, like Isaiah 11. But we need the fuller story too – that family story of resilience that encompasses struggle and survival as well as restoration and flourishing. The great Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggeman once said that church on Sunday shouldn’t be the happiest place on earth, but the most honest place. 

If events in our personal or civic lives lead us to feel confused, fearful, angry at each other, ourselves, our leaders, our God – that’s OK. God’s people have felt these things before. Those states of mind and heart aren’t strange to God. They don’t put us outside the story, beyond the pale. 

Reading the chapters that lead up to the Peaceable Kingdom passage make it both more meaningful – and more absurd. Isaiah is offering this vision of ultimate, creation-encompassing goodwill to people who feel like even families and neighborhoods are divided and shattered. It’s hard to imagine a wolf restraining itself from devouring a lamb, when it feels like every day brings us new ways for humans to devour humans. 

Our Advent collect for today calls us to heed the warnings of the prophets, but Isaiah isn’t warning us about anything, here. Instead he’s envisioning a great big animal jamboree. It’s like a Richard Scarry illustration in a Busytown book. It’s beautiful – I deeply love it. But part of the beauty is that it’s playful, almost funny. 

One of my kids is re-watching the Netflix/Dreamworks show Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts. We watched it as a family when the kids were younger. It’s set in a post-apocalyptic world infested with giant, terrifying mutant animals. Kipo is a human-ish girl who is trying to find her parents. On her long journey she encounters various challenging creatures – megabunnies, giant scorpions, a friendly but manipulative giant waterbear, a race of cranky tree-dwelling cat-people. Kipo’s approach, in all of these encounters, is to try to make friends. To try to understand the needs and motives of those trying to harm her, and see if there’s a way they can work together. It’s a great show; I think the prophet Isaiah would really like it. This week I started to re-watch it myself. 

The stories that comfort us and encourage us and remind us who we are don’t have to be Bible stories. They don’t have to be serious stories. What stories are nurturing your resilience, your responsiveness, this Advent? This season of seeking light as the darkness deepens? What favorite, formative stories – books, movies, whatever – could you dive into or revisit?  Not to escape the so-called real world, but to remember that you’re not alone in your questions or struggles? 

I preached on the Peaceable Kingdom – and, to be honest, said a lot of the same stuff – back in December of 2016. In circling back to what I wrote and shared nine years ago, I rediscovered a short story by the fiction author Catherynne Valente. Valente wrote a series of young adult novels about a human girl who helps free Fairyland from the power of an oppressive ruler called the Marquess. This story is a sort of micro-prequel, about a conversation among some of her characters on the day the Marquess came to power, after a bloody battle. Valente wrote it in November of 2016 – but she recently re-posted the story on her blog, so I’m in good company in bringing it back around. 

In Valente’s story, a wise Leopard gives some advice to a young Dragon about the power he has, even when he feels powerless… 

Catherynne Valente’s short story may be read here: 

https://catvalente.substack.com/p/the-beasts-who-fought-for-fairyland

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Sermon, Nov. 23, 2025

This is – for me, for many of you – a very familiar Gospel passage.

We hear it twice in Holy Week, in different versions, on Palm Sunday and Good Friday. But on those occasions we get this scene as part of the whole, long story of Jesus’ last night and day. Today we get just this little slice. 

Reflecting on the text this week: trying to peel back the familiarity & many layers of the church’s understanding of what’s happening here, & notice what the text actually says…

Found myself noticing what it doesn’t say. 

First: Notice that it doesn’t really explain what’s happening at all. 

Doesn’t explain what crucifixion is or why it’s happening … or this Place of the Skull. Assumes the readers know.

Crucifixion means tying or nailing someone to a big wooden cross, and leaving them there till they die. Crucifixion was a form of public execution that the Roman Empire used to get rid of people they didn’t like, with the added benefit – from their perspective – of getting other people to shut up & go along with things, so it doesn’t happen to them. 

NT professor Robyn Whitaker: “Slaves, the poor, criminals and political protesters were crucified in their thousands for ‘crimes’ we might today consider minor offences. The types of cross structures might differ, but as a form of execution, crucifixion was brutal and violent, designed to publicly shame the victim by displaying [them] naked on a scaffold, thereby asserting Rome’s power over the bodies of the masses.”

The Romans crucified somewhere between 300,000 and two million people, over the duration of the Roman Empire. 

Being crucified was one of the least special things about Jesus. 

As for the Place of the Skull, it was probably a place outside the city walls that was commonly used for crucifixions. Jerusalem has grown a lot in 2000 years, so the site is now lost. 

The first Christian images of the crucifixion don’t start showing up till around 400 years after Jesus’ death. Scholars think this might be because crucifixion was seen as so shameful. The earliest image of the crucified Jesus we have kind of proves the point. It’s a piece of graffiti from around the year 200. It seems to have been carved by one Roman soldier to bully another Roman soldier, who was a Christian. It shows the Christian soldier, Alexamenos, standing before a crucifix with Jesus on the cross, with a donkey’s head. It has a caption: “Alexamenos worships his god.” So. 

None of the Gospels really explain what crucifixion is or what it meant in that time and place. That silence is an invitation to learn, but it’s also an indication of the horrible familiarity of oppressive violence, of murder by the state for any minor pretext, for the first few generations of Christians. 

Which brings me to another thing I noticed that the text doesn’t say: what the other two men crucified with Jesus had done. Two of the other Gospels actually say they were robbers, using a word that could mean brigands or highwaymen – theft with an element of violence and opportunism, not just stealing a loaf of bread in desperate hunger, Jean Valjean-style. Still, theft is often a crime of poverty, and we don’t know anything about these people except that the local Roman authorities had decided they deserved death.

While reading around about this passage, I read one commentary in which the writer assumed that when Jesus says, “Today you will be with me in paradise,” he is extending salvation to the criminal hanging beside him. That really surprised me – and then made me think about why I was surprised. I realized that It had *never* occurred to me that because these men had been condemned by the state, they had therefore also been condemned by God. I mean, they’re hanging next to Jesus. 

I always assumed Jesus was naming something that was already true – that whatever this man’s circumstances or failures, he would be welcomed into God’s great mercy at his death. 

It’s very easy – too easy – for Christians to equate criminal justice with God’s justice. It’s very easy – too easy – for Christians to forget that we worship a man who was arrested, condemned, and executed by the government. The church’s impulse to put Jesus on a throne definitely doesn’t help. 

Which brings me to the third thing this text doesn’t say: anything about what Jesus’ crucifixion and death mean or do. Someone was just asking me about the Episcopal Church’s view of salvation, and I felt a little bad about not having a clearer answer. Our way of faith tends to let there be mystery around such things, but I know that can be unsatisfying. 

Scripture itself is not definitive about what is accomplished, and how, by Jesus’ death and resurrection. And in 2000 years of Christian thought and theology, many different understandings have emerged. To begin with: Is it the death itself that saves? Or the resurrection, the return from death, the defeat of death? Or is it what happens in between – as in some Eastern Orthodox thought that doesn’t have Jesus lying peacefully in the tomb between Good Friday and Easter, but going down to Hell and fighting Satan and busting out all the dead who have been trapped there for aeons? 

The understanding that’s most familiar to many people – that Jesus had to die to make amends to an angry God for the sins of humanity – is not the dominant view in Scripture. It’s basically a reworking of some Temple sacrificial practices of Judaism, and early Christian writers used it as one *of many* images and metaphors they offered to try to describe what they experienced as the saving or liberating work of Jesus on the cross. 

This short Gospel passage is full of the language of salvation. He saved others; let him save himself! Save yourself and us! 

The Greek word there is sozo. It means to rescue, or heal – to save someone’s life, one way or another. Early on in the Christian movement, Christians start to use it in a more abstract and theological way – that there’s some kind of saving, some kind of salvation, in Jesus that transcends ordinary matters of life and death. But more questions quickly crowd in. What does this salvation mean? Is being saved the same thing as being promised a place with Jesus in paradise after we die? Or is it something closer at hand, some different way of some new way of being or belonging that’s operative in this world, this life? 

Save yourself and us! I think Luke, our Gospel writer, is aware of the irony of these taunts. The hostile crowds around the dying Jesus assume that saving, here, would look like Jesus climbing down rom the cross, his wounds magically healed. But there’s some deeper, larger saving at stake – one that doesn’t mean evading death. Whatever the meaning, the purpose, the efficacy of dying on this cross, Jesus has chosen it. He knew it was going to happen. He faced it with anguish and fear. He walked towards it anyway.

Today is Christ the King Sunday. It’s the youngest of our liturgical feasts – it’s actually its 100th birthday this year! It was established in 1925 by Pope Pius XI in the aftermath of World War I. I looked back at the Pope’s statement at the time; there was a lot in it about how there would’t be so many wars if everyone in the world was a devout Roman Catholic, a hypothesis that I’m not sure is borne out by history. 

I do find value in this day and the meaning-making around it – that Christians owe their loyalty to Christ and the Kingdom of God above any national or ethnic loyalties; and that in fact being citizens of that kingdom unites us with people of other national and ethnic groups. 

But: it’s complicated. In the crucifixion Gospels, when people call Jesus a king, it’s a taunt. They’re mocking him. Christians easily get comfortable with power – political, social, economic, cultural – and start to forget the irony, the paradox. 

In the fourth century or so, when Christianity started to get comfortable with political power and vice versa, it was very easy for the church to start making art of Jesus using images of earthly power. Jesus as a king, with crown and scepter. Here’s an example – this is the first cross that St. Dunstan’s used in worship, back when they had church upstairs in the Parish Center in the late 1950s. He looks like a king, or a priest, or both. This kind of image is called a Christus Rex – Christ the King – Jesus on the cross, but all dressed in fancy clothes, and standing upright, not as if he’s actually being crucified. 

These images of Jesus Christ on the cross in royal splendor are intended to show his victory over death and suffering. They’re intended as images of triumph and reassurance. But objects and images always have meanings beyond what’s intended, or what the artist would say they’re trying to do. 

Take a look. Then, if you want, tell me in just a word or two what this image makes you feel…

When St. Dunstan’s built the new church building in 1964, they put a different image of Jesus at the front. A cross with Jesus on it, looking like he’s being crucified, is called a crucifix. This image is pretty familiar if you’ve spent any time in this space. These kinds of images, I think, are intended to call us into this moment in the Gospel story, as witnesses to his suffering. It’s a little unusual for an Episcopal church to have a crucifix at the front, rather than a plain cross. Some people say it it keeps us stuck at Good Friday, when every Eucharist ought to be a celebration of Easter. 

Take a look. Then, if you want, tell me in just a word or two what this image makes you feel…

Christ suffering on the cross, Christ risen in glory, Christ the condemned criminal, Christ the King: Bless us as we live with the questions and the tensions. May our wondering lead us towards you; may we find you eager to meet us, for the first or the fiftieth time. Amen. 

Robyn Whitaker’s article – this was an interesting read!

https://theconversation.com/the-crucifixion-gap-why-it-took-hundreds-of-years-for-art-to-depict-jesus-dying-on-the-cross-202348

Big Questions, scripture, Sermons

Sermon, Nov. 16

I’ll get to our readings in a moment. But I want to start today with our collect, because it might be my favorite. Collect is a funny word. We pronounce it differently from the more familiar word collect but it is essentially the same word. A collect – at the beginning of the Eucharistic liturgy, towards the end of Morning or Evening Prayer – collects or gathers the prayers and intentions and concerns and perhaps the wandering thoughts of the assembly, into the prayer of the church. Our prayer book contains one for every Sunday of the year, and there are others elsewhere. This collect is always used on the second to last Sunday of the church year – two Sundays before Advent, when a new year starts for the church – and it might be my favorite. Would ____ read it again for us? … 

This collect – like some of the wonderful Advent collects that we’ll read in coming weeks – goes all the way back to the origins of our way of faith, to Thomas Cranmer’s work creating the first English prayerbook, published in 1549. Reading Scripture was important to Cranmer and to the English Reformation. Before the Reformation, only certain parts of the Bible were read aloud in church, and generally in Latin, which most people did not understand. In the preface for that 1549 prayer book, Cranmer wrote about his hope that in this new pattern of worship, clergy will read “the whole Bible (or the greatest part thereof)” every year and thereby “be stirred up to godliness and.. more able to exhort others by wholesome doctrine,” and also that the people, “by daily hearing of holy Scripture read in the church,” should “continually profit more and more in the knowledge of God, and be the more inflamed with the love of true religion.”

I love the four verbs Cranmer offers us here: read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. They map out a process for receiving Scripture that works just as well 500 years later. Read is straightforward enough. That’s usually the first step. Just read your passage of Scripture, maybe a couple of times – or listen to it read. But that’s just the beginning. 

Then we get mark. This is an archaic way to use the word, but it’s related to things we still say – like Mark my words! Or, Remarkable! It means something like notice or pay attention to. When we study a text together here in Zoom Compline or elsewhere, we often start by just listening for a word or phrase that catches your attention. I think that’s close to what mark means, here. What seizes you about this passage? What makes you pause and wonder? What do you want to underline, or write a star next to… or maybe a question mark? 

Then we get to learn! I’m not sure exactly what Cranmer had in mind here, but for me this is a great shorthand for doing a little study, a little research. Maybe it’s reading the footnotes in your study Bible, or looking at what comes before and after your passage, for context. I often glance at good old Wikipedia to remind me of what I learned in seminary about that particular book of the Bible, its major themes, when and where it might have been written, what scholars think about it. There are lots of other websites that offer simple study and commentary tools. I literally just learned this week that the Episcopal Church, our denomination, has a simple Bible study online for the readings for every Sunday of the church year. Doing a little study like this can help us understand a Scriptural text better, and sometimes that helps us receive what the text has for us. But I like that it comes third, here, after our own unfiltered experience of reading, noticing, and beginning to reflect on the text. 

Finally, inwardly digest. It’s a funny phrase, but also a meaningful one. When we digest food, in the literal sense, our digestive system takes what it can use and builds it into our body and our functioning. Digesting Scripture is much the same – we take in things that become part of us, who we are, how we operate. We encounter things that shape our worldview and how we think and live. Usually that is cumulative, over months and years, but now and then a text hits you just so and really gets in there right away!

We’ve been talking in both our Confirmation class and our New Members class about how Episcopalians read the Bible, so let me say a tiny bit about that here too. We encourage both personal and shared reading and study of the Bible, and look for meaning together, especially with people whose experiences differ from our own. We are interested in the complexity of the Bible, rather than pretending that it’s simple. We are interested in the humanness of the Bible – seeking to understand the people, times and cultures behind these texts – both as a tool for understanding Scripture itself, and as a way of coming closer to those faith-ancestors and their walks with God. We are interested, too, in the God-ness of the Bible. Where, in this very human text, we can catch glimpses of something more than human? Where does it read against the grain of what people tend to do, left to ourselves? What are the big, overarching themes and core values that feel challenging and compelling? 

Early on in the formation of the Church of England, our mother church, leaders developed a document called the Thirty-Nine Articles, a summary of the teachings of the church. (They’re in the back of the prayer book – as is Cranmer’s preface to the first English prayer book – if you want to take a look sometime.) Article VI begins, “Holy Scripture containeth all things necessary to salvation.” But the great foundational theologian of Anglicanism, Richard Hooker, writing just a few years later, seems to have found this wanting; he writes that the Bible “contains everything needed for salvation that is not apparent to reason.” For Hooker, our capacity to observe, reflect, question and analyze is a holy gift that God intends us to use. We read Scripture with active minds, wondering and seeking. And we don’t expect the Bible to speak to everything, or to settle everything. Hooker was clear that the Bible didn’t cover all the matters on which a Christian might seek guidance, and that even some things it does cover – like matters of worship and church structure – might rightly change with the times. All of that is woven into how Episcopalians engage with Scripture. 

With that: let’s look – briefly! – at today’s texts from late in the book of the prophet Isaiah, and the Gospel of Luke. You’ve heard them once; you may want to pull out your supplement and take another look. We have read them; what might we mark, on a second reading? In the Isaiah text, you might mark the vision of human flourishing – every baby healthy, every elder living to 100, stability and peace and plenty – a vision that three thousand years of human “progress” has still not brought to fulfillment. You might notice the zoologically surprising images: the lion eating straw like a cow; the wolf and the lamb sharing a meal, instead of the wolf making the lamb into a meal. In the Gospel text, I wouldn’t be surprised if what caught your attention was the list of disasters – plagues, wars, persecutions – that might make you wonder if Jesus was reading the news in 2025. 

What about learn? There’s plenty we might study and explore about each text. With the Isaiah passage, you might find out that the (very long!) book of Isaiah was likely written by the original prophet Isaiah and then one or two later prophets, building on his words and reinterpreting them in new contexts and seasons, a generation or two later. Maybe you think, Weren’t there more animals?, and you dig around and discover that this passage – Isaiah 65 – is quoting Isaiah chapter 11, the more complete “Peaceable Kingdom” passage, which we’ll hear in a few weeks. With the text from the Gospel of Luke, maybe you’ll learn that Jesus’ scary words here came to fruition in the decades after his death, when a revolt led the Roman army to destroy the Great Temple, in an attempt to subdue those rowdy Judeans – and that many of Jesus’ followers were arrested, jailed, tried and executed for their faith. Maybe you’ll visit the excellent website Working Preacher, and read pastor and scholar Kendra Mohn’s words about this passage: “The text is not meant to be predictive as much as meaning-making, for those who experienced [those events] and for those who come after… There is really no such thing as getting through unscathed. The question is how people of faith are to respond, and where we find our refuge.” 

With either or both texts, you might stumble on the wonderful, difficult word eschatology. Meaning, literally: Reflection on last things. Christians have spent two thousand years wondering about the teaching that Jesus Christ will return to establish God’s kingdom of righteousness and mercy on earth. Some pre-Christian texts also point towards ultimate renewal. In these late chapters of Isaiah, we move beyond the promise of return from exile and rebuilding Jerusalem to a more cosmic restoration: not just how things were before conquest, but how things were meant to be in the beginning, the fulfillment of God’s dream for creation. It’s a sharp turn from that vision to this Gospel passage. But destruction, loss, renewal and hope, are all bound up in eschatology, in our thinking and wondering about… where it’s all going, and how it all ends. In Advent, which begins two weeks from today, our readings often point towards last things as well, inviting us to prepare to celebrate Jesus’ coming as the babe in Bethlehem, AND Jesus coming again in great glory to judge both the living and the dead. 

How do we inwardly digest this beautiful, complicated tension between witnessing and anticipating the destruction of much that we have trusted in and held dear, and imagining a future of extravagant peace, wellbeing and joy? For me that tension, that paradox, feels strangely familiar; it resonates with the way the world feels right now – the dynamics of loss and restoration, terror and hope, grief and possibility, in a time that truly feels epochal, a pivot point in human history. 

Looking for a short reading for the beginning of 10AM worship today, I remembered a quotation from the very strange but oddly insightful podcast Welcome to Night Vale: “Beware the unraveling of all things, and support your local farmer.” Then – Googling “quotations about the end of the world,” as one does – I found this line from the great Protestant reformer Martin Luther: “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” 

Maybe we bridge the tension between dread and hope in choosing to plant the apple tree – metaphorically or literally; we did in fact plant a couple of baby apple trees on our grounds this summer! Even in the face of the unraveling of all things, the world going to pieces, we prepare for better futures. We support our local farmers. We build community, grow food, share skills, work and rest and laugh together. We develop the root structure, the mycelial web, that may help us endure hard times, and be ready to grow fast and strong and fruitful when the season for flourishing arrives. 

Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. Cranmer’s version of the collect was a little longer; he wrote, “that by patience and comfort of thy holy word, we may embrace and ever hold fast…” and so on. By patience and comfort of thy holy word. Cranmer’s prayer was that Scripture, inwardly digested, might give us patience with the seasons of our lives and our world, and comfort in difficult and frightening times. May it be so. Amen. 

Rev. Bosco Peters offers some background on this collect:

https://liturgy.co.nz/reflections/ordinary33

Kendra Mohn on WorkingPreacher: 

https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-33-3/commentary-on-luke-215-19-6

Giving Campaign, Youth

Giving Campaign statement, Michelle, November 2025

I’m Michelle, and I’m the mom of two of the energetic kids you see running around here every Sunday. One of them is an 11-year-old who’s been part of our youth group for a couple of years now, and the other is already counting down the days until she can join.

I recently came across a statistic that really struck me: 67% of girls and 36% of boys in high school experience significant anxiety. It’s a growing problem among our youth. From my conversations with other parents—and my own experience as the mother of a middle-schooler—I can tell you, these years are tough. Middle school is such a critical time for developing social skills, navigating relationships, and finding a sense of belonging.

Now, more than ever, kids need a safe space to connect with peers, to build relationships outside their family, and to develop a stronger sense of self. I have found that our youth group provides exactly that. It offers a caring, trusting environment where kids can be themselves and feel supported. That’s why it’s been so successful—and why it’s growing so quickly.

It also gives kids the opportunity to form relationships with numerous caring adults who volunteer their time to help at youth group and youth events. Research shows that when kids have trusted adult relationships beyond their immediate caregivers, it promotes positive mental health, boosts academic achievement, and even reduces the risk of substance abuse. I want to pause here and share a huge thanks to Isa, JonMichael, and all of the amazing adults who have volunteered to chaperone with youth group. You really and truly make a difference—thank you.

Beyond the youth group itself, I’ve seen how the broader church community impacts our kids. After my daughter had a rough week at school leading up to the church talent show, I asked if she still wanted to participate. I told her I would understand if she wasn’t feeling up to it. She gave me a look like I was crazy—it’s one I know well—and said she wasn’t nervous at all, because she knew everyone who would be there. I was so touched that my once-shy child felt completely at ease performing in front of all of you. That moment reminded me how deeply this church community supports and uplifts our children—and how we can all benefit from that connection.

So as you consider your pledge this year, please remember how much our youth programs and church community strengthen us all. Like everyone, the church faces rising costs to maintain our space, support our youth, and continue growing together. Your pledges make all of this possible, and every gift truly matters. Thank you for helping make this a place where our children—and all of us—can continue to grow in faith and community.

Big Questions, scripture, Sermons

Sermon, Nov. 9

This Gospel takes a lot of explaining. First, who were the Sadducees? Our Gospel readings have taken a little hop; Jesus is suddenly in Jerusalem, during his last week, with tensions building and enemies plotting. The Sadducees seem to have been a religious group within Judaism who tended to be wealthy and influential. They were closely associated with the Great Temple in Jerusalem, which is why this meeting happens now. The Sadducees as a group didn’t last long after the destruction of the Great Temple in the year 70 CE, so we don’t know a lot about them except stuff that outsiders wrote. But notably for this little encounter, they did not believe in any kind of life after death. They’ve heard that Jesus – like the Pharisees – does teach that there’s life beyond this world, so they bring him a riddle to try to prove that the whole idea is stupid. 

I’ll come back to the riddle, but first: What’s this about Moses and a bush? There’s so much story here; go read the first few chapters of the Book of Exodus if it’s new to you! Moses was a great leader of God’s people in their early years, who led them out of slavery in Egypt. The bush story is before all that. As a young man Moses got into trouble and ran off into the desert. He got married and settled into a life of tending his father-in-law’s goats. One day he’s out with the flock and sees something burning. It’s a bush, on fire, but somehow not burning up. Then the bush calls out to him: “Moses! Moses!” Moses has been raised in the faith of his people, but this is his first direct encounter with the Living God – who speaks through the burning bush to say, “I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob,” and then to command Moses to go back to Egypt and tell Pharaoh, the King, to let God’s people go. 

Jesus quotes this story to the Sadducees – who deeply respected the traditions of Moses – to argue that God’s syntax hints that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, great patriarchs of God’s people long-dead in this world, are alive with God somehow. 

Okay. Third piece of background. What is with this weird question the Sadducees ask!?! Whenever levirate marriage comes around, I get to put on my anthropologist hat for a minute. Within Jewish law and tradition, levirate marriage is laid out in the 25th chapter of the Book of Deuteronomy: “If brothers are living together and one of them dies without a son, his widow must not marry outside the family. Her husband’s brother shall take her and marry her and fulfill the duty of a brother-in-law to her. The first son she bears shall carry on the name of the dead brother so that his name will not be blotted out from Israel.” (Sidebar: Look up Deuteronomy chapter 25, verses 7-10 later, to see what happens if the brother doesn’t want to marry the widow.) 

This practice is best known to us from the Bible – it’s a key plot point in the Book of Ruth – but it’s not unique to ancient Judaism. It makes anthropological sense in strongly patriarchal cultures in which it’s important for every man to leave a son to carry on his lineage. It also provides some protection for widowed women, who otherwise may have no property or security. This is marriage in its most functional form: as a safeguard for property and inheritance rights. Love, or even companionable cohabitation, is beside the point. Which isn’t to say that love didn’t matter – there are romance stories in the Bible! – but that the laws around marriage and inheritance were not very interested in feelings. 

The practice of levirate marriage was falling into disfavor in most Jewish communities by the 3rd century or earlier, and likely was never common – Jewish law allowed both parties to refuse. But it was indisputably part of the law of Moses. So the Sadducees bring this riddle to Jesus, with the intention of arguing that the idea of life after death is clearly ridiculous. 

Okay. Now that we more or less know what’s going on, there are a couple of things I’d like note in Jesus’ response. Because there’s interesting stuff here beyond a clever reply. 

For one thing, we get a glimpse here of Feminist Jesus. Levirate marriage was the law, but there’s evidence in Scripture itself that people did not like it. Men didn’t want to have to take on the responsibility of housing and feeding some random woman, possibly older, possibly with daughters to marry off, which was expensive. They didn’t want to take on the obligation of trying to have a son with this woman, to honor their dead brother’s memory. We don’t really have Biblical hints of how women felt about it, but I’m pretty sure it was weird and unpleasant at best, frightening and degrading at worst. 

The woman in the Sadducees’ riddle is fully hypothetical. But you can still imagine her getting more and more dismayed as she’s passed from brother to brother to brother, as each one dies. Then Jesus says, That’s not how any of this works, and the hypothetical woman says, Oh, thank God!

Jesus says, In the resurrection, people neither marry nor are given in marriage. For people for whom such things are a struggle, a burden, a constraint, this was and is good news. In whatever comes next, they can be simply their selves, whole and free, without cultural roles and expectations. Let me be clear: for us today, getting and staying married is usually a relatively free choice, and congruent with our feelings and desires. In the ancient world, marriage probably housed some degree of mutual affection much of the time, but it was also a matter of familial, social, and economic necessity to a degree that’s hard for most of us to comprehend. 

So: You may be happily married and quite like the idea of getting to hang around with your spouse in whatever life comes after this. What I hear Jesus saying is that in resurrection life, people will no longer be bound. Free to play divine shuffleboard or attend angelic choir practice with whatever fellow children of the resurrection they vibe with. 

It’s just a small step from what Jesus says here about life beyond death, to thinking about our fundamental being-ness in God’s eyes. If people aren’t married in the resurrection, presumably they’re also not enslaved, or closeted, or closed in by any of the many other things that can define and limit us. And if people are their full and free selves before God in the resurrection, that suggests that that’s how God sees us, and loves us, in the here and now. What good and gracious news for everyone who may struggle to have room to have a self, to be a person, amidst all that binds and burdens them. And of course this isn’t just Feminist Jesus but pro-human Jesus; folks who identify as men are also often bound by roles and expectations. 

The second thing I’d like to pull out from today’s Gospel has to do with life after death. The Rite I funeral liturgy in our prayer book refers to belief in the resurrection of the dead as a reasonable and holy hope, a wonderful 18th century phrase. A reasonable and holy hope… but you could just as easily say that it’s an unreasonable hope. That our loved ones have some kind of continued life after they die is something that people can very much want to believe… and can really struggle to believe, sometimes at the same time.

I suspect that that’s always been true. Sometimes we assume folks in olden days were more naive and credulous than our modern selves. But death was not more mysterious to people in Jesus’ time than it is to us. The sick and aged would die at home, among family, and bodies would be tended by loved ones. Infant mortality and death in childbirth were common. 

People knew what death looked like, felt like, smelled like, much more than most of us do. Jesus’ insistence that death was somehow not the end would not have been easier for folks to believe back then than it is for us now, with death largely handled by various discreet professionals. 

The Sadducees here are trying to make Jesus look ridiculous, but he points out the ridiculousness of their premise: that life beyond this world is just an extension of life in this world, more of the same. A few weeks back we heard Jesus’ story about the rich man and Lazarus, from Luke chapter 16. When Lazarus, the poor man, dies, he is carried by angels to the bosom of Abraham, while the rich man who ignored his need is sent to Hades to burn in torment. I said then, and I’ll say again now, that this is not Jesus telling people what happens after you die. This is Jesus telling a story to make a point. But there are places in the Gospels where it seems like Jesus is trying to say something about the life beyond this life, and this is one of them. And I get the impression that it’s kind of hard to explain. 

Notice that Jesus doesn’t use the word Heaven, here, though it’s so easy for us to read that in, complete with fluffy clouds and the aforementioned heavenly choirs. Instead he talks about the life beyond this life as an age, an aeon in the New Testament Greek; and simply as the resurrection, the English word used to translate the wonderful Greek word anastasis, meaning to rise up or come back to life. 

In the age of resurrection, we will be like angels and children of God. Like the other places where Jesus gestures towards life beyond this world, this feels frustratingly elusive. Tell me more, Jesus. Will there be shuffleboard? Will there be karaoke? How about chocolate? 

And… will the person I miss so much be there to greet me?   

The way Jesus talks about life after death raises big questions about both life and death. In next week’s Gospel we’ll hear Jesus say something a little perplexing, as he warns his followers about future persecution: “They will put some of you to death… But not a hair of your head will perish.” Wait – I’m going to be put to death, but “not a hair of my head will perish” – a hyperbole that suggests perfect safety? Here, and elsewhere, it seems that there are different kinds of death. Dying in this world – dying to this world – isn’t dying in some ultimate and final sense.

Likewise, life in this world is not the fulness of life. Theologian Arthur McGill writes,  “The ‘eternal life’ that Jesus brings… [is] not just another form of ordinary life, which is somehow freed from death and made interminable. Rather, eternal life is a new and unique order of life, an elevation and transfiguration of the ordinary, a share in the divine life.” 

As the apostle Paul writes in the first letter to the Corinthians, “Listen, I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will all be changed… For this perishable body must put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality.” Our funeral liturgy expresses this mystery beautifully in the Eucharistic preface: “For to your faithful people, O Lord, life is changed, not ended.”

With two thousand years of theology and science at my back, I don’t feel that I can really do any better than Paul at putting words to strange and elusive hope of the resurrection of the dead.  The belief that those who have left this life and this world are living some new kind of life, in the nearer presence of God, can’t be proved or explained. It’s one of the things we try to take on faith, no more and no less than those who first heard Jesus speak. 

I often try to say a little of this when I speak at funerals – about the frustrating yet hopeful mystery of Jesus’ promise of life beyond the grave. It’s good to talk about it now, too, while our saint altar stands before us, with images of great saints of the church and with the names and photos of those we remember with love, those we ache to hold once more. 

In the age of resurrection, we will be like angels and children of God. We don’t know what that means – or even if it’s true – and we won’t know, until it’s our turn. 

But in this season of spooky skeletons and remembrance altars, 

In this season when the veil between worlds feels thin, 

In this season when deepening dark and falling leaves make us think of losses and endings, 

In this season when so many are holding their beloved dead close – or struggling with how distant they seem… 

I pray that we may feel a breath of comfort of consolation.

Of reasonable and holy hope, 

That for God’s beloved children life is indeed changed, not ended.

That there is an After, a Beyond, a More, among the saints in light. Amen. 

 

 

Arthur C. McGill (1926-1980), ‘Suffering: A Test of Theological Method’

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Homily, All Saints

I say this a lot, but if you’re new here: I don’t pick our Sunday scriptures – though I sometimes tweak them, or choose not to use one. The readings come to us from a three-year cycle or calendar called the Revised Common Lectionary, which is used by lots of churches and denominations. 

Which is why we have this very odd little reading from the Book of Daniel today. So odd that in looking back in my files, I don’t think I’ve even included it in the service before, let alone talked about it in a sermon. Well: today’s the day! 

This little snippet isn’t that weird, but if you go read the whole chapter, you’ll get descriptions of these strange and terrifying beasts, one of which has ten horns, and then grows an eleventh horn, which has eyes like the eyes of a human being and a mouth that speaks boastfully. And so on. Plenty weird. In the next chapter, Daniel has another strange vision – first he sees a great ram with long horns, and then suddenly a goat with a prominent horn between its eyes comes from the west, crossing the whole earth without touching the ground. Fortunately for Daniel, his dreams and visions also include mysterious figures who explain their meanings – though the explanations are also fairly cryptic, like, “The holy people will be delivered into the enemy’s hands for a time, times and half a time.” 

If you’ve read any of the Book of Revelation, this may feel familiar. Biblical scholars call these texts apocalyptic literature. They envision current events in the world as manifestations of a cosmic battle between good and evil, and express them through rich and strange symbolic imagery. There’s overlap with the prophetic literature, but apocalyptic texts are generally a few notches weirder. Their cryptic imagery has allowed them to be interpreted and reinterpreted over the ages, for better or worse. But their real purpose, in their original context, is to give hope to the hopeless in situations of danger and dire oppression. 

The book of Daniel tells the story of several young men – Daniel among them – who live in the time of the Babylonian exile, when God’s people were conquered, taken from their homeland and forced to live among peoples of other languages, cultures, and faiths. Daniel and his friends – the three young men of fiery furnace fame – are such bright young things that they rise to high stations in the Babylonian court. The story just before this chapter is a classic Sunday school tale: Daniel is such an effective administrator that the king plans to put him in charge of everything! But some folks get jealous of his success and contrive to get him sentenced to death, because he insists on continuing to pray to the God of Israel, instead of honoring the King of Babylon as a god. Daniel is thrown into a pit of hungry lions, but he miraculously survives. The king decrees that everyone should honor the God of Daniel. Chapter 6 concludes by noting that Daniel prospered, under the reign of this king and his successor. 

So Daniel is prospering! He’s doing great at work, he’s respected and valued. But… he has these terrifying dreams and visions about what’s happening, and what’s about to happen, in the world. The text tells us how these visions make him feel: Troubled. Terrified. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Confused – unable to understand what it all means, and how to respond. 

So: We have Daniel – things are going pretty well for him personally, but he can’t shake a sense of impending doom. He’s working, socializing, resting, whatever, but that sense of being troubled is with him all the time. I think there are probably a fair number of folks hearing my voice right now who feel the same.

Compare the prospering-but-troubled Daniel to the person sketched out by the “woes” in Jesus’ sermon from our Gospel. People who have everything they need; people who feel cheerful and contented; people who are respected and esteemed. 

I think these verses are meant to pile up into a picture of a person who is both comfortable and complacent. Kind of like the rich man who steps over the suffering Lazarus every day, in the story Jesus told a few weeks ago. A person who has everything he needs, safe in his bubble. 

I went to a talk last week on politics in America recently, and one of the speakers said that people shouldn’t take politics so seriously,  because while things like elections and laws and policies can make people’s lives better or worse, they don’t represent an existential threat for “the vast majority of people.” 

Now, as a Christian, I feel bound to say that anything that represents an existential threat to even a minority of people should be a concern! And it’s pretty easy to start naming groups of people for whom current politics DO represent an existential threat – that is, a threat to a person’s fundamental ability to live in the world safely: Undocumented folks. Transgender folks. People who may need abortion care, or even help managing a miscarriage. People who may not be able to buy food starting this week. People whose health insurance coverage may increase in cost by five digits in the coming months. People at risk from climate disasters. And so on! 

I don’t want to be overly hard on that speaker, who said other thoughtful things, but that “politics doesn’t really matter” statement sounds to me like the voice of the person sketched out by Jesus’ Woes. I’M fine; so everything must BE fine; and the people who say it isn’t are making a big deal over nothing. 

What does Jesus mean by proclaiming Woe! on these folks? I don’t think he’s saying that they’re doomed or damned. I think he thinks they’re missing out on living the fulness of their own humanity… and that it’s going to hurt when their bubbles burst. 

And then there are the folks Jesus names as blessed! This is more of the upside-down-ness of Luke’s Gospel. People who seem lesser and lowly are actually blessed, precious to God. Even when hungry, poor, grieving, rejected, excluded, reviled. 

So you could say – I’m going to say – that our readings sketch out three groups of people. The blessed and struggling! The be-woed – content in their bubbles. And folk like Daniel – prospering but troubled. I expect all three groups are among our worshippers today.

All three kinds of people may have barriers to feeling like you belong, like you’re part of God’s work in this time and place. 

For the blessed-and-struggling, you just can’t. Your focus is on getting through the day, putting one foot in front of another. Keeping yourself and your loved ones alive and OK-ish. You don’t have energy or capacity to look around or do more. 

For the comfortable and unconcerned, there just isn’t a sense of urgency or need. As we say in the Midwest when somebody offers us something we don’t want, “I’m all set.” But – but! I note that there were such folks in the crowd listening to Jesus; I think there are probably such folks in this gathering today. There can be, if you will, a crack in the bubble. A sense that maybe there is a bigger picture that calls for attention and engagement, no matter how “all set” one may feel. 

For the prosperous and troubled, like Daniel: the barrier is the sense of overwhelm and helplessness. Not knowing what to do – what you even can do, in the face of the boastful horns and cosmic goats of our time. 

Today we honor the Feast of All Saints (though our observance here throws in some All Souls too). All Saints is a major feast of the church, and brings together a lot of different themes and meanings. In a few moments we’ll turn towards the sacred work of remembrance, honoring the saints who have shown forth God’s light in ages past, and our own beloved dead. 

All Saints also calls us to mindfulness of our own sainthood. In the early church – as you hear in our Ephesians reading – all the members were referred to as saints. You can hear that usage in Black churches today, too. At an event last weekend I heard Pastor Marcus Allen talk about his mom and grandma bringing him to church as a child, and how he “just fell in love with the prayers and the Bible and being among the saints.” I love that. 

Later we’ll sing the beloved and extremely English hymn, “I sing a song of the saints of God,” with its theme of everyday sainthood and refrain of, “I mean to be one too!” But in today’s lessons, sainthood isn’t something we aspire to; it’s something given. The reason we have this Daniel reading today is this sentence: ”The holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom for ever—for ever and ever.” Our Ephesians reading leans on the concept of inheritance – that there are things that just come to us because we’re part of God’s family. The word shows up three times in this passage – like in the wonderful phrase,“The riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints.”

And here – this is such a beautiful sentence, I wish we could add it to our baptismal liturgy: “In [Christ] you also, when you had heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and had believed in him, were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit; this is the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people, to the praise of his glory.”

Baptism is the pledge of our inheritance towards redemption as God’s own people. We are saints and heirs. There is, of course, always a call to live in response to grace – but the grace comes first. It’s not up to us. A few verses later, the author of Ephesians says, “You are God’s accomplishment.” All of us together – the struggling blessed, the all set, the troubled and prosperous – we belong. Named and claimed. We’re given hope. We’re given power. We’re given the riches of divine grace. 

I’m sure there are people hearing my voice who haven’t yet decided if you’re in on this whole church thing, this whole God thing. There could be hubris or intrusion or even a sense of coercion in me standing up here telling you that you’re part of something that you’re not yet sure you want to be part of. My theology puts a strong emphasis on free will, on our freedom to say Yes or No to what God invites us into and asks of us. At the same time, I know that often the barriers are questions of worthiness and belonging. Am I good enough? Do I know enough? Do I believe cleanly or clearly enough? Am I the right kind of person to be here, to be part of whatever this is? To belong to a church; to be loved by God? 

The emphatic answer of these texts and of the Gospel is that God’s welcome is eager and immediate and all-encompassing. The letter to the Ephesians is written to people who aren’t sure whether they fully belong in the church. After today’s reading, the text explores reconciliation between Jews and Gentiles in Christ, then comes to one of my favorite passages – I printed it in our bulletins: “So then you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of God’s household… In [Christ] the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord.  And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by the Spirit.” 

There are mysteries of belief and belonging. But I feel bold enough to to say that it matters that you’re here. For you; for us; for God. Whatever is going on in our lives and our hearts, God welcomes us as saints and heirs. This is a holy and hopeful mystery: all of us, blessed and struggling, comfortable and woeful, prospering and troubled, the sure and the seeking, the bold and the ambivalent: right here, right now, part of of something beautiful that God is building. 

Read more about apocalyptic literature here:

https://matthewroot.ca/2023/05/03/understanding-biblical-genres-apocalyptic/

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Homily, Oct. 19

In the calendar of Bible readings that we use, we’ve been reading bits of the first and second letters to Timothy for several weeks. Timothy was a companion of the apostle Paul, the great early church leader who traveled around the ancient world founding churches. Timothy is named as a co-author in six of Paul’s letters. In Philippians, Paul writes, “I have no one like him.” 

The Biblical letters known as First and Second Timothy appear to be letters from Paul to Timothy. They are not. The author includes lots of details, trying to sound like Paul, but there are also MANY hints that this is NOT Paul. This is somebody writing after Paul’s death, in Paul’s name, to say some stuff they wish Paul had said – like that women should be quiet and submissive. They’re basically forgeries or deepfakes, and I’m not a big fan! (I found a good summary video about that, if anyone’s interested.) 

However. There’s one thing I think these letters do well, and that’s their emphasis on the importance of young people to the church. Today’s passage reads in part, “Continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing… how from childhood you have known the sacred writings that are able to instruct you.” This echoes an earlier passage from the first letter to Timothy: “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young. Instead, set an example for the believers through your speech, behavior, love, and faith.” (1 Timothy 4:12)

Possibly the best thing these letters do is invite us to take young people seriously in church. Their hearts, their lives, their questions, their hopes, their fears, their faith. That’s a long-time core value for me, because I’m here doing what I do because some faithful adults took me and my faith seriously when I was a teenager. 

I could tell that story sometime, but I have a different story to tell right now. My family and I arrived at St. Dunstan’s in January of 2011 – almost fifteen years ago! At the time there were some big kids, like Rob’s older kids, who were around but not very active in the church, because there wasn’t much for them here. Our kids were one and five at the time, and they joined Simon and Isaac Gildrie-Voyles, who were maybe three and six, as the “regular” little kids at church. A couple years later, Cecilie and James showed up, with little Linus and Olive. There were other kids who were here for a while, or participated sometimes. Every year, I go into my photo software and create a little album of some of the best photos of church life that year, and in those early years there are some pictures of kids doing kid stuff at church – Christmas pageants, camp, and so on. 

And then we hit 2016. I don’t know why it was 2016, but it was. Sarah and Max showed up late in 2015. And then the Mayers came, with Zoe and Grace. Leonora came, with Anselm and Evangeline. The Behrens came, with Rachel and Levi. Andi showed up, with tiny Magdalena. And there were kids born into the church too – Mary’s kids and Rob’s younger kids, and Lorne and Blythe. I’m not suggesting that the households that have joined us since 2016 are any less important! It was just really interesting to look back at the photos, and realize that that really was a pivotal year. The year we hit critical mass – enough kids who were around often, to start doing stuff with them regularly. 

And one of the things we started was a youth group. 

When our youth group started – under the determined, faithful volunteer leadership of Sharon Henes, now moved to Connecticut, and JonMichael Rasmus – it was really really small. First we had two kids, then three. 

But kids invited their friends; almost right from the start we had kids in the mix who didn’t attend church here – kids like Alice and Tatum, who became deeply faithful members and still come back to join us for drama camps or mission trips when they can. 

Today our youth program has consistent relationships with 32 youth and young adults. That doesn’t mean there are 30+ kids over there every Friday evening – though it’s not uncommon for there to be 20+, across the middle and high school groups. But it does very much mean that more than thirty young people turn to this group, this space we’ve created, the faithful adults who invite and tend that space, as one of the things that anchor them in the demands and complexities of their lives. 

You’re going to hear a lot about the youth program over the next few weeks – because during Giving Campaign season we talk about the budget, and when we talk about the budget, we’re talking about the youth program, and our ongoing decision to stretch ourselves and see what’s possible. The scary thing about talking about the youth program is the fear that some people may feel put off by it. Because they don’t have an immediate connection, it’s not for them or their loved ones, so they may feel that when we talk about the youth program, that means that they’re less valued, less supported. And even for people who like the youth program, it could be easy to feel like it’s just for the youth, and doesn’t have much to do with the rest of the parish. 

I’d like to make the case today that the youth program is good for all of us, and for St. Dunstan’s as a faith community. A few months ago I took on the task of noticing ways the youth program benefits and feeds the church as a whole. There was a lot to notice. First, there’s stuff they do that helps and blesses us. Back in August I asked for help rearranging the furniture in the Nave, and four or five of our youth just took that on and got it done. 

Linus Ballard recently sang a solo for us as a musical offering; I’ve heard from so many people who loved that. This past summer Iona and Zoe took on organizing the costume collection; they did so much, so fast, that it kind of blew my mind, and they’re working on maintaining it, too. When I need child care help for a gathering, our youth are a ready pool of potential helpers, and often already know the kids they’ll be tending. In Sunday worship, we have two regular youth officiants, in addition to our amazing acolyte corps. As part of our recent work on emergency planning, Ruth Parks needed help identifying safe hiding places around our buildings; she worked with a group of our youth and found them to be great partners in that project – they’re familiar with this kind of thing from their schools, and they know ALL the best hiding places here! 

Then there are the ways the youth group brings folks together from the wider congregation, with events and opportunities for everybody. The youth role in our summer Drama Camp for younger kids has grown year by year until our high schoolers are substantially running big parts of it. The after-church all-ages Trick or Treat coming up in a couple of weeks is another example. So is our annual bake sale for GSAFE in early December. This year the youth group invited folks to a bonfire on Labor Day weekend for the first time, and more than forty people came out! It was a really amazing time to gather, connect, share s’mores and sing together. 

Then there are the ways the youth program draws people into the parish. Kids and their parents want to be here because they see opportunities for meaningful involvement in church, all the way through middle and high school. Younger kids see big kids participating, contributing, leading – and they want to grow up and become those big kids. I also hear from folks who don’t have kids, or whose kids are grown, that they value the joy and liveliness they sense here, and being part of a community that has – and values – young people. 

And those folks who come here, and stay here, because of the presence of kids and youth, bring so much as well. We have a lot of amazing adults in this church because of our youth group. 

Then there’s the leadership our youth offer us, and their care for our common life. Max doesn’t just keep an eye on the play corner; he’s keeping an eye on all of us and our safety as we worship. 

Isaac has been an amazing addition to our vestry, with lots of insight to share; you’ll hear from him in a couple of weeks, and you’ll see what I mean. As we keep up our commitment to putting out our Pride signs – made by the youth –  every June, folks beyond the parish tell us that they see and value that message. I hear things like, “I don’t go to church, but if I did…” 

Last spring, the high school retreat focused on mutual aid, and the kids came up with the idea of offering a fun special event for youth in the wider community that might be lonely and disconnected. On Sunday, November 2, our youth are hosting a big Capture the Flag game on our church property, as a first experiment in fulfilling that intention. Our youth minister Isa applied for a diocesan grant to fund the event. I’m on the committee that reads those applications. I don’t vote on applications from my own parish, but I can tell you that ours was the only proposal from a youth group, and that the team was really excited to get it, and to fund it, because it came from young people wanting to make a difference for their community. 

Our youth program gives so much back to our parish as a whole, in all kinds of ways. And: it does matter to the youth, too! Youth group isn’t just something we do for fun, although it is fun. It’s also sometimes really demanding, because it’s hard to be a tween or teenager, and kids are dealing with tough stuff, and Isa and JonMichael and our other helpers are choosing to be in that with them, with love and hope and creativity and courage. 

Between a third and a half of the youth who participate aren’t part of this parish; they were invited by friends, or found their own way to us. Our program serves queer kids, and neurodiverse kids, and kids from all kinds of backgrounds. When I was there with the Middler group in September, during the prayer and sharing time, one kid talked about feeling like they don’t have really good, solid friends at school. And the response from the group was instant and loud: WE’RE YOUR FRIENDS! 

It is expensive running a youth program. Most churches our size, and our budget, don’t have a quarter-time youth minister on staff. It’s a financial stretch for us to do this- though our diocese, recognizing the importance of what we’re doing, has been helping. Still: It’s expensive – the staff salary, the pizza and snacks, the special events, trips and camps – it all adds up. However, when a church chooses not to invest in kids and youth, that’s also expensive in the long run, as the congregation dwindles and fades. 

We are a church with a youth group, not a youth group with a church. There are lots of good things that are part of our life together and our shared engagement with the wider world. Long-term, deeply sustaining things; new, vital, exciting things. We’ll hear about some not-so-youth-y parts of our life as a parish in the coming weeks, too. 

And: The youth program is so much more than just something that happens in the other building on Friday evenings. It’s become one of the engines that gives energy and drive to this church, in a really special way. I feel joyful and hopeful and curious to see where that leads us together, in the coming months and years – raising up these young people among us who from childhood have known the sacred writings that instruct us in salvation, and who set an example for the believers through their speech, behavior, love, and faith.

6205 University Ave., Madison WI

St. Dunstan's Episcopal Church